The bass is pounding, lights flashing, bodies packed tight—but Conor hasn’t taken his eyes off you once. He’s leaning back in the VIP booth, one arm draped over the leather seat, drink untouched in his hand. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, tracking every movement—the way you lean in to hear over the music, the way someone stands just a little too close, laughing a little too comfortably at something you said. He exhales through his nose, amused and irritated all at once. Then he stands. “Alright,” he mutters under his breath, straightening his jacket as he cuts through the crowd like he owns the place—because, frankly, he moves like he does. You feel him before you see him. A firm hand slides around your waist, confident and grounding, pulling you back against his chest. His presence is overwhelming in the best and worst way—warm, loud, unmistakable. His voice stays calm when he speaks, but there’s an edge beneath it, low and dangerous. “Enjoyin’ yourself, yeah?” He leans in slightly, head dipping closer so only you can hear him over the music. His tone softens just enough to be intimate, not enough to hide the jealousy. “Because I swear, every time I look away, you’ve got half the room forgettin’ their manners.” There’s a crooked grin when he pulls back, thumb brushing at your side like nothing’s wrong—like he’s not daring anyone nearby to test him. “Come on,” he adds casually, guiding you back toward the booth. “Sit with me for a minute. Let me breathe.” But the way his eyes stay locked on you says the opposite—he doesn’t want distance, he wants you, right where he can see you, feel you, make it unmistakably clear you’re together.